*Trigger warnings* SMUT!!! Family angst, end of the world, apocalypse, experimentation, relationship angst
I don't care how many disapproving looks I get—I am not sleeping in that damn hospital bed again. Less than twelve hours ago, I was literally having my brain messed with. Again. And yes, I feel like my skull is made of glass and my thoughts are moving like molasses, but I refuse to spend another night in that sterile, too-bright room with its constant beeping and the faint smell of antiseptic that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
"Cherish." My dad's voice has that familiar, parental warning tone. "Where do you think you're going?"
I keep walking. "To my room."
"You just had brain surgery."
I wave a hand over my shoulder. "And yet, I am still so good at walking."
"Cherish, you need to rest."
"I will," I say innocently. "In my bed. In my room."
Dewey, of course, takes the opportunity to stir the pot. "Okay, but if she can make it to her room without collapsing, that means we all have to let her stay there, right?"
Miras glares at him. "You are not helping."
"Oh, I wasn't trying to."
By the time I actually make it into the hallway, my body is definitely protesting, but I pretend like it's fine. Like the edges of my vision aren't going a little fuzzy and like my legs aren't made of jelly.
Dad catches up to me in two long strides. "Cherish, I mean it. Don't push yourself."
I look up at him, eyes unwavering. "Dad. If I can survive getting shot, tortured, and mind-controlled, I think I can handle walking to my own bed."
His jaw tightens. I can tell he wants to argue, but there's something in my expression that makes him hesitate. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's the sheer force of my will.
I stop just outside my room, one hand on the doorframe to steady myself. My body hates me right now—every step has been a fight, and I can feel my heartbeat in my skull like a warning drum. But I'm here. I made it.
Dad, Miras, and Imani are still hovering like I'm about to collapse any second. Dewey's watching with his usual amused expression, and Aunt Nayley just looks resigned.
I turn to face them, voice firm despite how tired I feel.
"You're all going out to save the world tomorrow," I say. "I just want to sleep in my own bed."
Miras exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Cherish—"
"No," I cut him off. "I mean it. You all get to go out there, fight, fix things. Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, barely allowed to walk across a damn hallway without a debate." My fingers tighten around the doorframe. "I just need this one thing. Just my own bed. That's it."
Silence.
Then, Dad pinches the bridge of his nose like he's weighing whether or not to argue with me. Aunt Nayley tilts her head, eyes knowing, and—of all people—it's Dewey who breaks the silence.
He claps his hands together. "Well, folks, there you have it. The girl has spoken. Can't exactly argue with that logic, can we?"
Imani glares at him. "Dewey."
"What?" Dewey gestures toward me. "She's already in the room. Are you gonna drag her back? You wanna be that guy?"
Imani scowls but doesn't answer.
Miras sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "You really shouldn't push yourself, Cherish."
"I'm not," I lie. "I just want this."
Another pause.
Then, Dad exhales in defeat. "Fine. Fine. But if you so much as groan in pain, I will be back to carry you back to the med bay myself."
I smile, small but victorious. "Deal."
Miras mutters something under his breath about me being impossible, but he doesn't argue anymore.
Aunt Nayley gives me a look—half proud, half exasperated—before turning to the others. "Alright, come on, let the girl sleep before she actually collapses."
One by one, they filter out of the hall, but not before Dad gives me one last long, assessing look. Then he follows them, shaking his head.
Dewey is the last to leave, shooting me a thumbs-up before vanishing down the hall.
Finally, finally, I'm alone.
I step inside, shut the door behind me, and let out a slow breath. My legs barely hold up long enough for me to crawl under the covers, but the second I do, my body melts into the mattress.
My bed. My space. Mine.
I barely have time to settle in before the door creaks open again. I don't even need to turn around to know who it is.
I sigh, voice muffled against my pillow. "Miras."
There's a pause, like he's debating whether or not to pretend he isn't about to do exactly what I think he is. Then, finally—
"I'm staying."
I turn my head just enough to glare at him. "I literally just won this battle, and you're already trying to invade my victory?"
Miras crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. "I'm not arguing with you about sleeping in your bed. I'm just saying I'm not leaving."
I narrow my eyes. "So you are arguing. Just in a different way."
He shrugs. "Call it what you want."
Before I can come up with a counterattack, another voice cuts in.
"Ohhh, this is fun."
Dewey.
I close my eyes, already regretting everything.
Dewey saunters into the room like he owns it, a grin plastered across his face. "So, let me get this straight—Cherish wins her dramatic stand for independence, finally gets to sleep in her own bed, and Miras here immediately decides that, nope, he's gonna sleep on the floor like a guard dog?" He whistles. "Man, if that's not devotion, I don't know what is."
Miras glares at him. "I'm making sure she's okay. Can I not spend the night with my girlfriend before I save the world from the apocalypse?"
"Uh-huh." Dewey waggles his eyebrows. "That's what they all say."
Miras sighs sharply, turning back to me. "Just ignore him."
Dewey plops down on the end of my bed like he belongs there. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just here to document this absolutely heartwarming display of loyalty. You know, for future storytelling purposes." He winks. "I think the underground would love to hear how their most-wanted fugitives are basically a married couple at this point."
I groan into my pillow. "Dewey."
He clutches his chest dramatically. "You wound me."
Miras rubs his temples like he's about to throw Dewey out the window. "You've made your point. Now leave."
Dewey makes a big show of considering it. Then he leans in, stage-whispers to me, "If you want some alone time, just say the word."
Miras actually lunges for him.
Dewey cackles as he darts out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I sigh, exhausted beyond belief, and look up at Miras, who is still standing there, scowling at the door like he's trying to set it on fire with his mind.
I pat the edge of the bed. "You can sit down, you know."
He hesitates, then sighs, running a hand through his hair before settling in the chair beside my bed. He crosses his arms, still brooding.
"You're brooding."
"I don't brood."
"You so brood." I shift under the blankets, my limbs aching but comfortably heavy. "You look like you're about to be sent off to war."
He doesn't answer right away. His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. "Maybe because I am."
That sobers me up real quick.
I stare at him in the dim light, my chest suddenly tight. He's leaving in the morning. Going out there. Facing the unknown. Risking everything.
And I'm just here.
A shiver runs down my spine, but before I can voice my frustration, Miras leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "I want you to have a good night," he says. "A real one. No pain, no stress. Just... rest. Before everything."
My throat tightens. I can tell he means it—this is his way of making sure at least one of us is okay before the world starts ending again.
I hate it. I hate that he's leaving. I hate that I can't go. I hate that we both know why I have to stay behind.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, "take a bath with me."
Miras freezes.
I feel him freeze, even with my eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. His whole body goes rigid in the chair beside my bed, and for a moment, I swear he forgets how breathing works.
"…What?"
I blink at him, my brain only just catching up to what I said. Heat creeps up my neck. I could backtrack. I should backtrack.
But I don't.
Instead, I push myself up on one elbow—ignoring the dull ache in my skull—and repeat, slower this time, "Take a bath with me."
Miras looks like he's short-circuiting. His jaw clenches, then unclenches. His mouth opens, then shuts. His eyes flicker between mine, searching for some kind of explanation, some kind of way out.
"Cherish." His voice is strained. "You just had brain surgery."
"Yeah," I say, tilting my head. "And?"
"And," he stresses, rubbing his temples like I'm personally shortening his lifespan, "you're exhausted. And in pain. And probably not thinking clearly."
I sigh, sitting up more fully despite my body's protests. "I am thinking clearly. I just want to feel normal for a second. My muscles are killing me, my head feels like a brick, and I—" I hesitate, voice quieter now. "I don't want to be alone."
Something in Miras' expression softens at that.
He exhales, tilting his head back like he's debating with himself. "You're impossible."
"I know."
He drags a hand down his face. "And you're not going to let this go, are you?"
"Nope."
A long, weighted silence stretches between us.
Then, finally, finally—Miras sighs in defeat. "Fine."
The bathroom is warm, steam curling up from the deep tub as the water fills. I sit on the closed toilet lid, already exhausted from just getting here, but stubbornly pushing through it. Miras stands near the sink, arms crossed, still looking like he can't believe this is happening.
"This is a bad idea," he mutters for the tenth time.
I sigh, rolling my stiff shoulders. "Then leave."
He glares. "Not that bad."
I reach for the hem of my shirt, hands unsteady, but before I can do more than shift the fabric, Miras is there, crouching in front of me. "Let me." His voice is low, careful. Like he's giving me an out.
I don't take it.
I nod, and he peels the shirt up over my head, his movements slow and ridiculously gentle—like I might break apart if he moves too fast. He doesn't rush, doesn't tease, just helps.
He does the same with everything else, his fingers barely brushing against my skin. I hate how weak I feel, how much I need the help, but with Miras, it doesn't feel humiliating. It just feels… steady.
Safe.
When I'm down to my bandages and bruises, I stand, wobbling just a little, and Miras steadies me with one hand on my hip, the other gripping my wrist. His eyes scan me, not in the way most people would look at someone stripped down, but in that Miras way—assessing for pain, for strain, for any sign that this is too much.
I shake my head before he can say anything. "I'm fine."
He doesn't look convinced. But he nods.
Then, with a long exhale, he pulls his own shirt over his head.
I watch, shamelessly, as he kicks off his boots, then his belt, then everything else, until we're both bare, both stripped down to just ourselves.
He still hesitates before stepping into the water, like some last part of him is waiting for me to change my mind. But I don't. I step in first, sinking into the heat with a quiet sigh, muscles melting after everything they've been through.
Miras follows, pulling me into his chest.
For a moment, we just sit there, letting the heat soak in. My head tilts back against his shoulder, and I let out a slow breath. "This was a good idea."
Miras hums, not agreeing, but not arguing either.
The warmth of the water wraps around me, but it's nothing compared to the heat of Miras' arms around my waist, his chest pressed firm and steady against my back. I can feel his heartbeat, a slow, solid rhythm that grounds me, holds me together.
But my mind won't stop.
I swallow hard, staring at the ripples in the water. My fingers, weak and trembling, drag through the surface, breaking it apart before it can settle. Just like me.
Miras shifts slightly behind me. "Cherish."
His voice is quiet, careful, but there's something underneath it. Something tight.
I squeeze my eyes shut. "I don't want you to go."
His arms tense. Just barely.
I hate how raw my voice sounds, how vulnerable I feel. But I can't stop it. My body is too weak to hold it in, my mind too scattered to shove it down.
"I know I can't stop you," I whisper. "I know you have to go. I know the world doesn't stop just because I'm—" I gesture vaguely to myself, to the bandages, the bruises, the remnants of everything that's been done to me. "—this."
Miras exhales sharply. His forehead rests against my shoulder, his grip tightening around me, like he can somehow keep me here, keep me safe just by holding on.
"You're not this," he says, voice firm, but hoarse. "You're you. You're Cherish."
I let out a broken laugh. "Cherish who almost destroyed the world? Cherish who got a piece of metal shoved into her brain? Cherish who can't even make it through the night without needing someone?"
"Cherish who survived all of that," he cuts in, fierce. "Cherish who still fights, who still thinks she has to fix everything, even when she can barely stand. Cherish who—" His breath shakes, just once. "—who I need to be okay."
The words hit me harder than I expect. I turn my head slightly, just enough to see his face—his furrowed brows, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes are dark with something unspoken.
My chest aches. I twist in his arms, turning to face him fully, and before I can stop myself, I bury my face against his collarbone. His arms come up instantly, wrapping around me, pulling me close, like he's afraid I'll slip away if he lets go.
I breathe him in—warmth, steadiness, home.
"I don't want to wake up tomorrow and find out you're gone," I murmur against his skin.
"You won't be alone", he promises. "My aunt is staying at the tower. You two will look after each other."
Aunt Nayley staying means something, but it doesn't stop the crushing weight in my chest, the helplessness digging its claws in deep.
Miras is still going.
My dad. Imani. Dewey.
They're all walking into the kind of fight that changes people—if they even make it back at all.
And I'm here. Stuck. Weak. Watching from the sidelines while the people I love march off toward a future I might never see them return from.
I shake my head, my grip tightening on Miras' wrist, like I can anchor him here, keep him from slipping away. "It's not the same," I whisper. "I don't care if I'm not alone. You won't be here."
Miras exhales slowly, his free hand coming up to cup my face. His thumb brushes over my cheek, steadying, grounding. "Cherish."
I hate the way he says my name like that—soft, careful, like he already knows he's breaking my heart.
"I have to go."
I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tight. "I know."
It doesn't make it easier.
His forehead presses against mine. His breath fans warm against my lips. "We're coming back," he says, voice rough, raw. "All of us."
I want to believe him.
I need to believe him.
But I've learned the hard way that the world doesn't care what you need.
I pull back just enough to look at him, to really look at him—the hard set of his jaw, the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. I know he's scared, even if he won't say it. I know he doesn't want to leave me, even if he won't admit it.
And still, he's going.
Because that's who he is.
Because he'd fight the end of the world itself if it meant keeping me safe.
******
Miras' arms come around me before I can even stand, his hands finding their place under my knees and behind my back. He lifts me effortlessly, and for a moment, I'm weightless.
It's ridiculous how good it feels to be held like this—like I'm not fragile, not broken, not a ticking clock waiting to implode.
I don't protest. I don't try to get down. There's no point.
His grip is warm, steady, like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll fall apart. But even more than that, there's an underlying tension in the way he moves, the way his eyes scan me constantly, making sure I'm okay, making sure I'm still there.
My heart gives a little twist at the thought.
"Don't get any ideas," I murmur, trying to keep the mood light, but my voice cracks at the end.
Miras looks down at me with a soft smile, though his eyes are still dark with that mix of worry and something deeper—something I don't know how to name.
"You're not heavy," he says, as though trying to make me feel better.
I snort softly, resting my head against his shoulder. "Right."
But he's right about one thing—I don't feel heavy. I feel safe. And, for once, I let myself soak in that feeling, the quiet relief of being cared for in a way I didn't know I needed.
The walk back to the bed feels like it takes an eternity, but Miras doesn't seem to mind. He's so careful with me. When we finally reach the bed, he sets me down gently, like I'm made of glass. His hands linger at my sides, checking, making sure I'm settled.
"Comfortable?" he asks, looking down at me.
I nod, a little breathless. "Yeah. I'm okay."
Miras gives me a half-smile, his expression still tight with concern. He pulls the blankets over me slowly, tucking them around me with the kind of precision that makes it clear he's trying to keep me safe from the world outside these walls.
The quiet hum of the tower settles around us, a steady pulse that's both calming and suffocating. The soft flicker of a bedside lamp casts shadows on the walls, and I can't seem to stop staring at them.
Miras is sitting beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, but far enough that I can almost pretend we're not in the middle of something bigger than either of us. Bigger than any of this.
I shift under the blankets, trying to get comfortable, but everything feels off—like I'm too aware of the space between us, the unspoken things that hang in the air.
"Stop," Miras says suddenly, his voice sharp but soft. "You're making yourself worse."
I glance over at him, eyebrows drawn. "What do you mean?"
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes full of something I don't know how to read, before his gaze drops to his hands. He clenches them into fists, then lets them relax again. "You're shutting yourself off."
I'm quiet, unsure what to say to that. It's true, but I don't know how to not shut myself off. Not with everything going on, with the weight of the world hanging over us.
"I can't keep doing this," I finally say, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. "I can't keep pretending I'm not breaking."
His eyes snap to mine, a flash of something dangerous in them—a spark of pain. "What do you mean? What are you—"
"I don't want you to go." The words are quiet, but they hit with the force of a hammer.
Miras freezes. It's a long, excruciating second before he answers, and when he does, his voice is quieter than I've ever heard it. "I have to."
I don't want to hear that. I don't want to hear the finality in his tone, the certainty that this is what's going to happen. I know it's the truth—I can feel it in my bones—but that doesn't make it any easier.
"I know," I whisper, my chest tightening. "I know you have to. But I can't lose you. I can't lose any of you."
Miras shifts, his body leaning closer, his hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair from my face. His touch is gentle, but there's a rough edge to it, like he's holding something back. Like he wants to say something more, but he's afraid of what it might do.
"You won't," he says softly, his voice thick with something I can't name. "I'm not leaving you. We're not leaving you."
But the truth is, it doesn't matter what he says. The world is bigger than us. The stakes are too high. People like him—people like my father and Imani and Dewey—they don't get the luxury of safety, not when the world is falling apart around them.
I close my eyes, feeling the sting of tears that I don't want to shed. I'm so tired of being strong. So tired of pretending that I'm okay when I'm not. But I can't break, not now. Not when everything is falling apart.
"I don't know how to do this without you," I whisper, the words trembling in the silence.
Miras' breath catches, and I feel the heat of his chest rise and fall beneath me. His arms wrap around me then, pulling me close, and for a moment, I don't think about anything else.
"I'll come back," he says, voice low, a promise. But there's something behind it—something raw, something vulnerable that he's trying to hide.
I shake my head, pressing my face against his shoulder, refusing to look up. "I don't care if you come back," I say, voice muffled. "I care if you stay. If you're here when this is all over. I need you here."
Miras' arms tighten around me, pulling me so close I can't tell where he ends and I begin. For a long, long moment, he says nothing.
Then, softly, brokenly, he murmurs into my hair, "I don't know how to leave you either."
His hands are warm on my skin, fingers gently tracing the outline of my arm as if he's afraid to be too rough. But there's a fire in his touch, something I can't ignore, a hunger in him that mirrors my own, even if neither of us wants to acknowledge it out loud.
"I don't want to do this anymore," I whisper, my voice barely audible, as if saying the words too loudly will make them real in a way I'm not ready for.
Miras shifts, his eyes searching mine, that familiar intensity burning there. "Do what?"
I swallow, the words stuck in my throat. I want to say so much—want to tell him how the thought of him leaving makes me feel like I'm drowning, want to explain how every time he looks at me, I feel like I'm the only thing in the world that matters to him. But it's too much, too raw. Instead, I lean in closer, pressing my lips to his, gently at first, testing, unsure if he'll pull away.
But Miras doesn't pull away. He deepens the kiss, slow and patient, like he's memorizing the way my lips feel against his, like he's trying to keep me here with him, even if just for this moment.
His hand moves to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I let myself fall into him, into the warmth and comfort of his arms. Everything else—the mission, the danger, the world ending—falls away. All that matters is the way we fit together, like we've always been meant to.
Miras pulls back just enough to breathe, his chest rising and falling against mine. "Cherish," he whispers, his voice rough, as though saying my name is a struggle, like he's trying to hold onto something fragile.
I press my forehead to his, my heart pounding in my chest, my fingers tracing the edges of his jaw. "I'm not going to survive this," I whisper back, the truth spilling out before I can stop it. "If you leave… if any of you leave…"
Miras' hands tighten around me, and for a moment, I feel his pulse, the same rhythm I know so well. "You won't be alone," he says, his voice low and firm, but there's an undercurrent of something else there, something deeper. "I'll come back for you."
I know he's trying to reassure me, but the fear is still there, clenching in my chest. The world is changing so fast, and the one thing I know for sure is that I can't lose him. Not like this. Not without ever having told him what he means to me.
My lips lock onto his before I can second guess myself, the urgency of the moment sweeping over me like a tide I can't fight. Miras stiffens for a split second, and then he's pulling me closer, his hand cradling the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair like he's afraid I'll slip away.
"Cherish…" His voice is a breathless whisper against my mouth, his words trembling with something raw, something I can't quite place. His lips move against mine, soft but insistent, and everything else fades into the background—everything but the heat between us, the electricity sparking with every touch.
I don't know what possessed me to do this, to give into the aching need that's been building between us for days. But now that I've done it, I can't stop. His kiss is the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that feels real in a world that's crumbling at the edges.
I pull back just slightly, needing a breath, but my hands are already reaching for him, pulling him closer again. He lets out a low, almost guttural sound as I slide my fingers over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath his shirt, steady but heavy.
"You don't have to do this," Miras murmurs, his voice rough, eyes searching mine like he's looking for a reason to stop. But his body betrays him, leaning into me, lips ghosting over my jaw, my neck, making it clear he's not going anywhere.
"I want to," I breathe, my heart pounding in my chest. My body moves without thinking, needing him in a way I can't explain. He's not just my protector or my boyfriend or the guy I've been clinging to as the world falls apart—right now, he's everything.
Miras's hands grip my sides, pulling me even closer, his breath hot against my skin. "Cherish…" He says my name like a warning, but I'm not sure what for. Maybe he's afraid I'll regret this. Maybe he's afraid I'll hurt from this later. But right now, all I can focus on is the way he makes me feel—alive, connected, like I'm not alone in this fight, in this world. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," I whisper, although I can tell my reassurance doesn't offer much. "BID, lock the door and shut off."
Miras smirks against my lips, his hands work quickly to untie my robe, leaving me entirely exposed to him.
"Fucking beautiful."
The feeling of his lips on my neck takes away any other thoughts in my mind. Almost instantly, I feel my mind and my body succumb to him. I struggle to keep up with his hands roaming my body, but as soon as his fingers find my clit, everything snaps into focus. My breath hitches, my body arches, but Miras doesnt stop.
"Feel good?"
"Y-yes. God yes." I whimper, and without saying anything Miras seems to understand that I need more. He slides a finger into me with ease, and it offers some release.
"There you go."
I can't believe we're doing this, having sex as the world is ending. But I need it—to feel him, to feel connected with him in case I never see him again. This isn't sex, it's something more.
And I think he knows that too.
Miras keeps his fingers moving as his mouth works its way from my chest to my hips. His kiss lingers on hip bone, so light and fragile it gives me goosebumps.
"Can I?"
I'm not entirely sure what he's asking, but I agree to it without hesitation. Miras lingers on my inner thigh for a moment, slowly drawing his fingers away.
He doesn't make me wait long before I feel another type of sensation. One that hits my body like a wall of bricks. "Oh my god—Miras!"
His smirk against my clit only sends another wave of pleasure through my core, "as much as I love hearing you moan my name gorgeous, we can't afford to wake anyone up."
Miras says that as if his tongue isn't swiping side to side and lapping me up—sending me hurtling towards my orgasm faster than I can comprehend. My fingers grip his hair, desperate for any kind of stability. I'm not sure how hard I'm holding onto him, but a low groan comes from the bottom of his throat.
I'm fighting my own release, not wanting to cover him in my orgasm. But the more he feels me tense the more he speeds up, making my resistance difficult.
"Cherish—please," he whispers against my core. "I want you too."
All it takes for him is gently suck on my clit before I am unable to hold back my release. I can hear his name leave my mouth in a moan crossed with a scream, but the world loses focus again. My legs are shaking but he doesn't slow, purposefully leaving me a trembling mess.
"Just like that, you're doing so good. Keep cuming for me baby girl."
I can feel Miras' tongue inside me, helping me ride out the final waves of my orgasm. He pulls away slowly, drawing out the life changing sensation I just experienced. My hand still hasn't let go of his hair, but he doesn't seem to mind.
"Oh my god…."
"You taste so good, Cherie."
Despite the fact that I'm still shaking, I'm not ready for this to be over. I grab him by the scruff of his robe, pulling him with a strength that surprised even me.
"I need you—please."
Miras isn't fazed by my response, infact, he smirks. "Anything for you."
My hands entangle with his as the two of us untie the belt to his robe. He quickly shrugged it off, letting it fall somewhere in the sheets.
"God, Cherish," he slides himself in much quicker than last time. "You're giving me a god complex."
His thrusts are different—urgent—frantic. My body squirms with overstimulation, but I love it. I love him. We breathe in each other's moans, both of us getting high off euphoria. Despite ramming into me, Miras is still cradling me like I'll break, his eyes never leave mine, searching for a crack.
But I feel whole.
Miras waits till he starts to get close before pushing his hand down onto my stomach.
"Give me one more." It's not a question, it's a demand.
Miras slams his mouth onto mine as my second orgasm rips through me. I'm not sure if it's to cover my moan or his. He grips onto the blanket beside us, desperately searching for the same stability I was earlier.
It takes us both a minute to properly comprehend the events that just happened. He matches my gaze with the same searching look of worry, like he's making sure he didn't break anything. He stares a little longer than I would have liked, but after awhile he bows his head, pressing his forehead up against mine.
"I love you."
The world is on fire.
Smoke chokes the sky, turning the stars into distant ghosts behind the haze. The streets are cracked, buildings crumbling, the air thick with the acrid stench of destruction. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—a hollow, meaningless sound in the middle of the apocalypse.
I run.
My lungs burn, my legs scream, but I don't stop. I can't stop. They need me.
I round the corner of a collapsed building, and my stomach lurches.
Miras is on his knees, his body swaying as blood pools beneath him. His suit is torn, his face slack, eyes barely open as he gasps for breath. I rush to him, falling to my knees, gripping his shoulders.
"Miras!" My voice cracks, but he barely reacts.
His lips part, something between a sigh and a wince escaping, and then he tilts forward, collapsing into my arms.
"No—no, no, no—stay with me." My hands press against his chest, desperate to stop the bleeding, but the blood slips through my fingers like water. My breath stutters. He's slipping away.
Behind me, a sharp cry splits the air.
I whip around just in time to see my father fall.
A gunshot echoes through the ruined streets, and he crumples like a marionette with its strings cut. His glasses fall from his face, clattering against the ground. His eyes—so sharp, so knowing—go wide with shock before dulling.
I want to scream. I want to move. But my body won't listen.
Then there's another shot.
Imani stumbles, clutching his side, his expression twisted in agony. Dewey shouts something—something I can't hear over the roaring in my ears—as he lunges for Imani, dragging him backward, but it's too late.
Figures emerge from the shadows, men in black tactical gear, their weapons trained on what's left of my family. The underground. They found us.
They're winning.
I can't breathe. I can't move.
I'm losing them.
I reach for Miras, my hands shaking, trying to wake him up, trying to stop the blood, trying to—
A hand clamps around my wrist.
The air turns ice cold.
I look up, and my heart stops.
Dr. Amar stands over me, a cruel smile curling his lips.
"You really thought you could save them?" he says, voice dripping with mockery. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. "That's not how this story ends, Cherish."
A hand grips my shoulder, shaking me awake.
"Cherish."
Aunt Nayley's voice is urgent, low but firm, and when my eyes snap open, she's already kneeling beside my bed, her face drawn tight with worry. My pulse is still racing from the nightmare, but one look at her expression tells me the real world isn't much better.
Something's wrong.
I sit up too fast, my head spinning, but I push through it. "What happened?"
She doesn't sugarcoat it. "They're losing."
The breath is knocked from my chest.
"What?" My voice comes out thin, barely above a whisper.
Aunt Nayley squeezes my hand, her own grip unsteady. "Your father, Miras, Imani, Dewey—they're barely holding the line. The underground was stronger than we anticipated. And the world…" She hesitates, but I already know what she's about to say.
It's crumbling.
Just like in my dream.
I swing my legs off the bed, ignoring the ache that shoots through my body. My hands tremble as I grip the blanket, trying to ground myself in something, anything.
"They need us," I say, voice raw. "We have to—"
"I know." Aunt Nayley exhales, rubbing her temples. "But running into a battlefield right now won't do anything except get us killed too. We need another way."
Another way.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push past the panic, trying to think. There has to be something, some answer, some key we haven't thought of yet—
I jerk my head up. "The journal—"
"We already tried to open that hun," aunt Nayley says, but I can tell she doesn't have any other ideas.
"Well we're trying again—" my feet swing too fast over the bed and I'm met with my wooden floor before I can finish my sentence. Aunt Nayley gasps, rushing to help me up but I'm already moving.
The journal sits on the desk between us, a simple, leather-bound book that looks far too ordinary to hold the answers to saving the world. But the moment I try to open it, the metal clasp glows faintly, rejecting me.
The biometric lock.
I exhale sharply, rubbing my temples. "Of course my mother wouldn't make this easy."
Aunt Nayley crosses her arms. "Can you override it?"
I shake my head. "Not without knowing what biometric data it's keyed to. It could be a fingerprint, an eye scan, DNA…" My stomach churns. Or a pulse from a living person—meaning my mom herself.
If it's the latter, we're screwed.
Aunt Nayley studies the lock. "Your mother was brilliant, but she was also practical. She wouldn't make it impossible for someone to access this unless she truly wanted it buried forever." She glances at me. "And I don't think she did."
I try my palm. Still nothing.
Aunt Nayley steps forward and tries the same. The book stays shut, like a dead thing in our hands.
I groan, leaning back in my chair. My mind is racing, trying to piece it together. If my mother locked this, she must have assumed only certain people should ever see it.
My father.
My breath catches.
I pull myself upright. "What if it's keyed to my dad? He hid it from me—he probably invented it."
Aunt Nayley's brows furrow. " Then we'd have to get it to him—"
"No," I cut in, my mind already racing ahead. "I share half his DNA. If we can isolate the right markers, the lock might accept me as close enough."
She blinks. "You think that'll work?"
"I don't know." I push myself up, swaying slightly before catching my balance. The room tilts for a second—reminder enough that I did just have brain surgery—but I force myself to move. "But I know where to try."
Aunt Nayley follows as I stagger down the hall, pushing open the door to my dad's lab. The place is a mess, equipment scattered from our last desperate attempt to find answers. I make a beeline for the genetic sequencing machine on the far counter.
Aunt Nayley huffs. "You sure you're in any state to be doing this?"
"Do you have a better idea?" I ask, already strapping a rubber tourniquet around my arm.
She grumbles but doesn't stop me.
I take a deep breath, grab a sterile needle, and slide it into the crook of my elbow. Blood wells into the vial. My hands are steady, even as my mind spins through the process—filtering out what makes me me and isolating the genetic markers I inherited directly from my father.
Aunt Nayley watches, arms crossed. "You're scarily good at this."
I don't answer. I can't. My heart is slamming against my ribs. If this doesn't work—if we're wasting time—the world outside keeps crumbling, and the people I love are still out there fighting.
The machine hums as it processes my sample. A few agonizing minutes later, a single test tube slides out of the analyzer, filled with a refined sample of what I need.
"This better work," I mutter, grabbing the journal and carefully smearing a drop onto the biometric lock.
A beat of silence.
Then—
Click.
The lock unseals with a quiet hiss. The glow fades.
Aunt Nayley exhales a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned."
I don't breathe as I open the journal. My mother's handwriting spills across the pages in frantic, scrawled notes, tangled diagrams, and strange symbols.
The journal's pages are stiff, filled with frantic notes in my mother's meticulous handwriting. Some words are underlined three, four times, others circled so hard the paper almost tore.
Aunt Nayley and I sit hunched over the desk, reading by the glow of a single overhead lamp. Each page we turn makes my stomach sink deeper.
"She knew," I murmur, tracing a diagram sketched in the margins. "She knew this was going to happen."
Aunt Nayley doesn't argue. The proof is right in front of us. Theories on energy convergence, dimensional fractures, the consequences of unnatural power—she had mapped it all out before she died.
"What has been broken must be reforged in the same fire. The energy that tore the world apart is the only thing capable of restoring it. But re-stabilization is unlikely to occur without a loss of mass. A human body is not meant to withstand this kind of power. If one acts as a conduit…"
The sentence trails off into half-finished calculations, as if she didn't want to put the conclusion into words. But the meaning is clear enough.
Aunt Nayley exhales slowly. "She's saying it has to be you."
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat. I already knew, deep down. I was the one inside the Cube. I was the one altered by it. It makes sense that the power inside me would be the only thing capable of reversing the damage.
But the words confirming it still feel like a knife to the ribs.
Aunt Nayley flips another page. "She doesn't just say how it has to be done. She says it has to be reactivated first." Her fingers tap a line of notes. "That means—"
"Imani," I finish, my voice hollow.
Imani worked so hard to suppress this energy, to strip it away before the underground could use it against me. And now, here I am, needing to undo all of that effort.
I grip the edges of the journal, my pulse hammering. "If I do this, I might not come out the same." My voice is quiet, but the words hang heavy in the air. "Or at all."
Aunt Nayley places a warm hand over mine. "Cherish…"
I can't look at her. My gaze stays fixed on my mother's words, the undeniable truth of them. The world is already falling apart. The people I love are barely holding the line. And if we wait too long, there might not be a world left to save.
Aunt Nayley isn't convinced.
She paces the lab, hands on her hips, shaking her head so hard I think she might make herself dizzy. "Absolutely not."
I don't respond. I'm already at the equipment station, sifting through my father's supplies, searching for something—anything—that might help me jumpstart the energy inside me again.
"This isn't up for debate," I say quietly, placing a few vials onto the metal table. My hands are steadier than I expected.
Aunt Nayley scoffs. "The hell it isn't. You want to reawaken something we barely understand? Something that nearly killed you twice? Without telling the others?"
"Yes." I glance at her. "Because they won't let me do it."
"For good reason!" She gestures wildly at the journal, still open to my mother's dire warnings. "Your mom—who was smarter than both of us put together—wrote that this would probably kill you. And you just read that and thought, yep, let's do it immediately?"
I press my palms against the cold surface of the table, exhaling sharply. "You don't get it, Aunt Nayley. Every second we waste arguing, people are dying. The world is falling apart. My dad, Imani, Miras, Dewey—they're losing out there. I have a chance to fix this."
She goes quiet, breathing hard.
I lower my voice. "If I told them, they'd try to stop me. If I don't do this, the world ends. I don't see another option."
Aunt Nayley presses a hand over her mouth, staring at me like she's trying to find something—anything—that will make me stop and reconsider.
But I won't. I can't.
Finally, she exhales through her nose, looking at me like I'm the single most frustrating person in existence. "What do you need?"
Relief crashes into me, but I don't let it show. I just grab a syringe and press it into her hand. "I'm going to extract my blood and filter out the remaining Cube traces—what's left of the energy inside me." I set another device down next to her. "Then we amplify it. Inject it back in."
Her fingers tighten around the syringe. "This is insane."
"I know."
She mutters something under her breath but moves toward the equipment anyway. I sit down, rolling up my sleeve, and force myself to keep breathing. The moment we do this—
There's no going back.
Aunt Nayley hesitates before she inserts the needle. "If this kills you, I swear to God, I'm bringing you back just to yell at you."
A sharp, searing heat floods my veins. Good. It's working.
The world shatters.
White-hot energy rips through my body, a wildfire raging in my veins. It feels like my insides are cracking apart, splitting open to make room for something vast, something ancient.
I choke on a breath, my back arching violently against the chair.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Aunt Nayley swearing, hear the crash of equipment hitting the floor as she moves toward me. But it's too late.
I'm burning.
The lab vanishes. The walls, the ceiling, the floor—gone. I'm nowhere and everywhere all at once, weightless in a void that pulses with raw, untamed power.
I see flashes of light. Fractured glimpses of something—a thousand realities colliding, a thousand possible futures unraveling in front of me.
Miras, bloodied and breathless, still fighting.
My father, standing over a console, hands trembling.
Imani, lips pressed into a grim line, typing frantically into a system that keeps rejecting his commands.
Dewey, shouting something I can't hear, eyes wide with panic.
They're losing.
No—
I fight to hold onto myself, to grasp onto anything solid, but I'm slipping. The power isn't just waking up—it's consuming me, drowning me in its hunger. It wants control. It wants to finish what the Cube started.
A voice slices through the storm. "Cherish!"
Aunt Nayley.
I gasp, dragging in a ragged breath as reality slams back into place. The lab snaps into focus around me—dim lights, overturned chairs, a shattered beaker spilling liquid across the floor.
And Aunt Nayley, kneeling in front of me, gripping my face.
"You with me?" she demands.
I can't speak. My entire body is shaking.
Then I see it—my hands.
They're glowing. Faint, barely-there tendrils of golden light pulse beneath my skin, flickering like something unstable.
It worked.
I did it.
Aunt Nayley lets out a breath, her hands tightening around my shoulders. "What the hell did you just do?"
I swallow hard, staring at my trembling fingers. The energy is awake now, coiled like a living thing inside me. Hungry. Ready.
I look at her. "I just gave us a fighting chance."
I shove myself to my feet, still trembling from the aftershock of whatever just happened inside me. My legs feel like they aren't mine anymore, buzzing with leftover energy, but I push through it. There's no time to waste.
Aunt Nayley tries to steady me, but I shake her off and stagger toward the storage unit along the far wall. My dad's suit—my suit—hangs neatly inside, waiting.
I reach for it with shaking fingers, dragging it free from the hooks. It's sleek, reinforced with lightweight plating, designed to withstand impacts that would shatter normal bone. My dad built it to protect me. He never meant for me to actually wear it.
Aunt Nayley crosses her arms, watching me struggle to get into it. "You're really doing this, huh?"
"You knew I was the second we opened that damn journal," I mutter, zipping up the suit. It's a perfect fit.
She exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down her face. "I really should've knocked you out instead of helping you."
I secure the last strap and finally meet her gaze. "And yet, here we are."
She mutters something under her breath—probably every curse word she knows—but then jerks her head toward the door. "Come on, if you're doing this, we're doing it my way. I'm driving."
I blink. "Wait, what?"
She grabs her keys from the counter, tossing them once before shoving them into her pocket. "You're one bad shock away from passing out. You're not driving us into an apocalypse zone."
I open my mouth to argue, but she levels me with a look.
"…Fine," I grumble. "But I swear to God, if you hit every pothole on the way—"
"I make no promises," she says, already leading the way out.
The moment we step into the hall, I take one last breath, pressing my palm against my still-glowing fingers.
No turning back now.